Sweet Dreams
by whispering-wings
Summary: Wakaba finally gets what she has always wanted: Saionji's attention. But in their moment of passion, is it truly she who he has his violet eyes on?


"Sweet Dreams"  
  
This was everything she had ever dreamed of.  
  
They stood quietly before the mirror, their reflections like a still portrait, an eternal work of art painted eloquently at sunset. The slowly dying sunlight played softly on chestnut hair and cherry cheeks, bringing gentle warmth to her form. She hardly noticed this natural enhancement, however, as she stared, chocolate eyes dancing with the threat of tears, at her reflection.  
  
"It isn't finished yet," he clarified, his voice rumbling deeply against her back. Her body quivered in innocent wanting against his. "But when it is..." he laughed, his voice the music of the angels in her ears. "...well... It will be something to enhance your already beautiful face, Wakaba-san."  
  
Her breath caught in her throat as she choked back the onslaught of tears, her eyes still captivated by the gift—the hairclip—as he held it tenderly to her hair. Her lips remained in a silent smile.  
  
"Here..."  
  
She felt his strong hands in her hair, his fingers caressing the sunlight curls as he searched for the bow that held them all together. The soundless smile moved to protest. But before it could, the curls spilled down across her back and shoulders like satin, framing her blushing face in chestnut curtains. The hands were still there, tousling, touching, teasing. She swallowed hard as they searched her scalp, pulling wayward tendrils from her fluttering eyes.  
  
And then suddenly, they stopped, sliding slowly from the satin and to her shaking shoulders, leaving only the leaf-shaped hair clip in their place. She watched as dark violet eyes intently held her visage in the mirror, unwavering and unclouded. They were as bright and as watchful as the moon.  
  
But they were like the eyes of a fisherman, like the distant eyes of a fisherman standing at the dock as his ship pulls away.  
  
The girl tilted her chin demurely, the smile tightening slightly. Like the fisherman's wife, she ached to understand that hazy gave. "...Saionji- sempai...?"  
  
Her words seemed not to faze him, but to drag him further into whatever spell he was under. "You just..." His voice trailed off.  
  
"I...?" The smile straightened in uncertainty.  
  
His large hand found its way to coffee curls once more. "You just... With your hair like that, you..." He tilted his head slightly. "...You remind me of..."  
  
Like a rock. Her chest, which had been heaving with anticipation for what seemed like an eternity skipped a beat and then fell like a rock into her stomach. The smile returned to her face with a horrible strain. She laughed loudly against the unpleasant feeling, and the extreme motion wracked a salty tear loose from a chocolate orb. "I can't remind you of anyone, Saionji-sempai," she forced, her voice trembling with false laughter. She stood then, desperately pulling the tiny present from her hair. "I'm an individual! Didn't you know that?"  
  
She turned once more to face him, hair-clip in hand. But he was already there, hungry hands reaching hesitantly for her form. "No, wait..." he murmured, staring hard into her face. Her weak gaze bent to his stronger one and her eyes fell to the floor, past the hairclip in her trembling hand. "...You looked so...regal just now. Like a princess."  
  
Her fist tightened. "A princess?" she breathed.  
  
His hands shook of their doubt and closed the distance, one cupping her face while the other wrapped possessively around her waist. "Like a princess in a garden of roses," he murmured, his face so enticingly close that she could feel his warm breath across her cheek.  
  
She raised her chin to speak. As her lips parted, his closed tightly around them, cupping them in a powerful, passionate embrace. Air escaped her as the rivers flowed freely now down her cheeks. The soaked eyes watched as his violet orbs closed against them.  
  
And she fell into his arms as she had always dreamed of, slipped backwards and down to the rough carpet below, enveloped in his scent, in his skin, in his incredible passion and power. With little fuss she succumbed to him, her virgin chest rising and falling fast with innocence. And absently, her hand grasped tightly to the tiny wooden leaf.  
  
The world raced around her, fueled by sweat and tears and moans of desire, and she found her voice rising with his, although somehow it was hollow. And she clutched harder at the leaf-shaped pendant as his lips explored her body, her sloping neck and chest, forcing themselves beneath the protective school uniform and beyond, and her voice rose again, alone into the silent evening, and somehow it was hollow.  
  
She couldn't recall the rest. It was somehow blurry in memory, as if her mind had blocked it somehow. Inevitably, she ended up curled in his lap like a child, her blouse and tie undone and discarded somewhere across the tiny room, her face soaked in tears and sweat and saliva.  
  
Her ear against his stomach, she could hear him sighing with satisfaction as he laid there, hands behind his head, staring intently at the back of his eyelids. They still had not opened, his violet eyes. They remained shut in some private reverie that would to the girl forever remain a mystery. But whatever it was, it lingered as a smile on his flushed face.  
  
And still clutched at the unfinished hairclip, her knuckles bloodless and white. Even as wildly tousled hair clouded her vision and itched her cheeks, she held it tightly Even as his stomach rumbled in private laughter against her weighty head, she held it tightly. Even after he fell into a sweet dream, the slow rise and fall of his stomach the only proof of his existence to her, she held it tightly.  
  
She would remain curled in his lap, clutching onto the tiny thing until the morning when he would yawn and stretch and complain idly about the crick in his back and mutter something random about coffee and morning breath and laundry. She would rise quietly with a smile painted to her lips, retrieve the abandoned blouse, and leave the stifling room to go get coffee beans. And still, even when she bent over the toilet to expel, when she washed the tear streaks and sweat from her face, when she gazed in the bathroom mirror and saw only green eyes staring back, she held the hair-clip tightly.  
  
When she finally let it go to give it back to its creator, she discovered deep cuts in her palm that didn't disappear for a long time. 


End file.
